The Man in the Pages
by connorfemway
Summary: It was a fact - Haytham Kenway was not, and never again would be, the heroic man that was contained within the pages. Drabble-esque, Fem!Connor.


"Do you think you and Haytham could ever grow to like - even love - each other?"

A reply to an ask on the ask blog **connorfemway** on tumblr.

I actually went through a few different drafts for this reply. For whatever reason I was unable to make up my mind on how I wanted to reply to this question. In the end, it turned out like I wanted it too, although it is more of a drabble than a story and I apologize in advance if that is not everyone's cup of tea.

But it is likely that a certain scene mentioned in this will be fleshed out into it's own story.

Enjoy.

* * *

There were times in which there was only hate. Sitting alone in the dark, Connor could only hold off the thoughts for a small while before they pushed past any mental barrier she had set in place.

How she loathed him. How she wanted him to experience some accident, some catastrophic event that might erase him from this earth. That way, the task of his elimination would not fall upon her shoulders.

There was so much to blame him for and yet so little, all at once. Sour thoughts permeate her mind, spread like a disease.

In his presence, these things disappear. Haytham Kenway is neither man nor Templar. He is something surreal yet not, on a different plane yet standing right beside Connor. There was nothing extraordinary about him, yet at the same time he was the most interesting man in the world.

But here in the dark, with the hum of the bugs at her open window, Connor lets the thoughts run wild.

Hours of contemplation had led her to this point. While at the helm of the Aquila, upon the back of a horse, while sipping drink amongst familiar men in the dim light of taverns. The same thoughts, over and over again. Why did she feel this way?

Until finally, an epiphany was reached, on the night in which she is alone to contemplate.

Connor blamed the journal.

As a child, Haytham had been the pillar of her motivation, the unreachable wonder that was the world outside of her village. The pages were detailed, littered with the many things a child could dream of. He was a magnificent man: an adventurer, a philosopher, a sailor, a politician, an advocate. Most importantly of all, he was a father. Her father. And he was out there somewhere, she had known. So desperately had she wanted to find him, this man who stood atop her world, the embodiment of perfection.

This journal, containing the curly handwriting of Haytham Kenway, long since turned to ash, was the reason she could not look upon Haytham as a human. Instead, he was an untouchable figure. The one who must be obeyed and referred to politely. The father she had sought for _so long_ to find, that she might meet him and learn more of his tales and even follow along in the adventure.

But the man she had looked upon and the man within the pages was not the same, and Connor can only curse the naiveté that she is plagued with.

Haytham was a senseless murderer. The very thing he had preached against was now what he embodied. Cruelty, spite, malice, all wrapped up into one forlorn package. The craving of power, the senseless bloodlust, the cold demeanor. Connor cannot add two and two. How could this be?

Twenty years after the completion of this beloved journal of Connor's, Haytham was all of the things he had loathed about the world. And it seemed that he was the only one who did not realize this.

The woman who sits at the table in the dark runs a hand through her hair, lets her teeth sink in to her lower lip. The other hand scrapes the old wood with ripped fingernails.

There were times in which there was not only hate.

No, there were times in which Connor was sure that the man before her _was_ the Haytham Kenway of old, the man who had cared for her late mother and fought for reasons other than power. The moments in which his harsh tongue is quieted, in which emotion shines through in his face, are so rare that Connor has trouble mentally grasping at them to recall. When she finally grabs one, she can only think of why these moments are so important - his actions speak volumes to the things he hides from his daughter.

A rare instance where Haytham cannot seem to settle down when his daughter has finished her scuffle with a round of regulars. Tensions have run high, and they barely escape with their lives. Stubborn in his ways, he tends the smallest of cuts on her cheek, carelessly soaking his own sleeve in alcohol to dab at the meager wound when no other cloth can be found. The Assassin opens her mouth to protest, but reconsiders. In the end she says nothing - there is nothing to say. For once, they did not need words.

For when they spoke, all that came out was muddled emotion. So many things to say, no way to say it, so words are substituted for harsh facades. The wedge is driven deep between them, distancing them further. In the moments where no words are spoken, there is a noticeable peace about the air. Father and daughter relax in the knowledge that they are alive and together, and that is all that is needed.

There were things to like about Haytham. There was admiration to be found.

However, Connor did not have the will to search for this admiration, nor to bother liking her father. Somewhere beneath the cold exterior he hid, but one could not simply shave away twenty years' worth of damages done to one's personality. That would be a naive belief, she knew.

So long had she sought to find a father with whom she might find love, the love like her mother would give her.

The holes poked in his exterior told stories. The moments in which he shows meager care or takes the extra leap of faith for his daughter, however small, are the driving factors for Connor's remaining hope.

Haytham liked his daughter. She could see it in his face on those rare occasions - that he enjoyed Connor's company. It was the only reason he would work with her, the only reason he would insist upon dragging her along to do tasks that he himself was fully capable of completing. Considering that he had no prior knowledge of his daughter, and the many interactions they'd had so far had been negative, the scenario was beyond ironic and Connor could hardly understand it. The way he tried so hard - insisting upon changing her name, insisting that she might leave the Homestead one day and come to stay with him, insisting that her path should be Templar and not Assassin - was only a testament to the care he clumsily hid.

There were times in which Connor still held hope. If Haytham, time-worn and a shell of his former self, could bring himself to care for the daughter who had practically fallen into his lap, then there might be hope yet that she could love him like a daughter should love her father.

But Connor could no longer afford to be naive.

Hope as she might, she would not trick herself - Haytham was not the man from the journal, and never would be again. Should he die, she should not keep her hopes up.

So it is better to let the hate in, to blame him and his cause for the wrong done unto her and others. Despite the affection building within the Templar's heart, she would have to deny it for the better of the masses and for the Creed, as Achilles had preached.

There would never be a bigger disappointment for Connor in her life than to realize that the love she had searched for so desperately as a child was now out of arm's reach. It is upon this night, sitting alone in the dark, that Connor lets her head fall onto the table before her, stifling the choking emotion that dared to bubble up from within her while she had the freedom of solitude.


End file.
